


Don’t Tell Me Lies (They’re Going To Get You Hurt)

by Saucery



Series: Napkin Stories [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Androids, Anger Management, Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Assassins & Hitmen, Central Intelligence Agency, Co-workers, Control Issues, Crack Treated Seriously, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Fake Science, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hate to Love, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, Interspecies, Loss of Control, Love/Hate, M/M, Mission Fic, Opposites Attract, Partners to Lovers, Partnership, Power Dynamics, Pseudoscience, Repression, Robot Feels, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Robotics, Robots, Romance, Sarcasm, Sassy, Science Fiction, Size Kink, Snark, Spies & Secret Agents, Strength Kink, Teamwork, Three Laws of Robotics, Undercover As Gay, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4657407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Illya is a robot, and Napoleon discovers an unlikely kink for being fucked by machines with Russian accents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t Tell Me Lies (They’re Going To Get You Hurt)

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that not only is this story wildly historically inaccurate—I mean, it features _androids in the 1960s_ —but that it also contains implied internalized sexism, homophobia and ableism, including opinions about the mentally ill that I do not share or condone, since I myself am mentally ill. But, yeah. If those sorts of opinions trigger you, you are advised to avoid reading this story.
> 
> Oh, and I’ve given Napoleon more of a casual, colloquial speaking style, unless he’s actively undercover as someone more “high-class” and “sophisticated.” This is partly because I like the idea of Napoleon as an erstwhile blue-collar criminal, not a white-collar one, and partly because it contrasts nicely with Illya’s overly formal, robotic speech patterns.
> 
> I’m a fan of the Opposites Attract trope, basically. Carry on.

* * *

 

Napoleon climbed into the rickety old truck, tugging irritatedly at his suit when it snagged on a protruding nail. Great. That ruined his favorite Zegna.

There was one other man in the truck—the man who was meant to be his partner, Napoleon hazarded, although he appeared to be asleep. He had combat boots that hugged his calves, combat pants that hugged his crotch, and leather armor that hugged his chest.

He looked like something out of a comic book. Also, he was taller than Napoleon, and Napoleon immediately resented him for that.

“Uh, hey,” Napoleon said, and suddenly, the man’s eyes snapped open. All Napoleon got a glimpse of was a feral, mechanical _red_ before he was being pinned to the wall of the truck, his neck squeezed by fingers too powerful to be human.

“State your designation,” the man—robot, Jesus, it was a _robot_ —said in a thick Russian accent. “Or die.”

“I, er.” Napoleon wheezed. “Search your database for me? I’m supposed to be your partner. I think.”

The glowing red eyes blinked, and faded to a comparatively docile blue. “Napoleon Solo,” said the bot, letting Napoleon go. “CIA agent. Former criminal.”

“It’s rude to mention someone’s criminal past. Is it equally rude to mention that someone’s _not human_? Because nobody told me you weren’t human. Not even my employer, and he’s a cagey bastard, but this is him being cagier than usual.”

“My duties include extraction, assassination and sabotage. Organics are too fragile to succeed reliably at those missions.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I ain’t fragile, buddy.”

“I could snap your neck in zero-point-four-three seconds,” the bot said, calmly. “You are fragile. Do not interfere with my mission.”

Napoleon ground his teeth. “Don’t mess with _my_ mission, Tin Soldier. Because I’m here to seduce a beautiful duchess, and that sure as hell isn’t a task you’re capable of.”

“Females have shown sufficient interest in engaging in coitus with me.”

“Really?” Napoleon surveyed the bot skeptically. “I guess there’s the caveman appeal. Or maybe it’s the rabid dog appeal. You don’t snap _their_ necks, do you?”

“If it is my mission, yes.”

“Freaking hell.” Napoleon sat on the bench on his side of the truck, and the bot slowly did the same, on the bench opposite. “What’s your name, then? Or your designation. Whatever.”

“Illya is my name. Peril is my designation.” Illya-the-robot tilted his head. His nostrils flared. “You have recently engaged in coitus.”

“What?”

Illya reached out, running a hand up Napoleon’s thigh, to his crotch, which Illya cupped.

Napoleon jumped so high, he hit his skull on the ceiling of the truck. “Ow! Hey!”

Illya retrieved his hand and sniffed at it. “A female of approximately twenty-nine years of age, fertile, who had been exposed to gunpowder or had herself used a gun, and who had generously applied the perfume known as Rive Gauche to herself.” Illya rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. “That is the perfume favored by Olga Hackoff, field operative for the MI6, who is also twenty-nine years of age, and is an expert sniper. Is that a coincidence, or did you fraternize with your previous partner?”

“Yep, I was teamed up with Olga.” Napoleon shrugged. “We had a bit of a farewell bang. Fireworks, lemme tell ya. She’s a remarkable woman.”

“Her weapons scores and martial arts abilities are, indeed, noted as being above average on her training report.” Illya managed to give the impression of being disapproving. “Nevertheless, fraternization with a colleague or a team member is considered a tactical vulnerability or a distraction at best, and a contributor to inefficiency and failure, at worst. Organics are irrational and are generally emotionally compromised by sexual intimacy.”

Napoleon snorted. “Don’t worry. I won’t be fraternizing with _you_.”

“Good.”

“Attractively rational though you may be.”

“My rationality has not been mentioned as a cause for attraction by any of the females that have sought to establish romantic relationships with me.”

“I was joking, pinhead. What did they say attracted them to you, anyway?”

“The size of my penis.”

Napoleon blinked. And blinked again. And scrutinized Illya’s bland face for any sign of a smirk or a leer. There was none. “You’re serious.”

“I do not joke. Unlike you.”

“Clearly. So you can get it up? Despite being… what you are?”

“I am capable of emulating physical arousal of multiple kinds, including but not limited to fear, rage and sexual titillation.”

“Emulating. As in, it’s not the real deal? It’s just a series of mechanical processes, but you don’t _feel_ anything?”

Illya paused.

Napoleon stared. Because, and this was just a hunch, but robots didn’t often _pause_ , did they? That would imply some sort of hesitation, of emotion that might interfere with pure logic, and robots weren’t exactly renowned for that. Unless they were Berserkers. Which Illya—hopefully—was not.

Damn. But he was a Russian. Wouldn’t the KGB be fond of Berserkers? As long as they could be put on a leash? A programmable leash? What could be better than that? What could be better than an agent that could transition seamlessly from being a cute li’l pet labrador to shooting up a room full of people? And whose loyalty would never, ever be in doubt?

“Oh, shit,” Napoleon said, weakly. “I’m fucked.”

Illya, who had very obviously not answered Napoleon’s previous question, said, “I am programmed to be averse to fraternization, as it is counterproductive. You need not be concerned that I will ‘fuck’ you.”

“I could hear the quotation marks in that sentence,” Napoleon said, with a pointless attempt at humor, given who—or what—his audience was. “Ha, ha.”

They didn’t exchange any further pleasantries until they approached Milan, where Napoleon had a duchess to debauch, and Illya had a bomb to defuse.

Without going off like a bomb, himself.

Crap.

* * *

Illya did, in fact, go off like a bomb, in the sense that Napoleon had successfully pick-pocketed the actual bomb’s detonation device from the cleavage of the duchess’s genuinely stunning Givenchy evening gown, only to emerge into the ballroom to find literally every single guest dead or dying, and Illya standing in the middle of it all like a pillar splattered with gore.

Napoleon had nearly thrown up. Nearly. But he was a professional, and he had his pride, and he wouldn’t—

Weren’t at least _some_ of the folks in that ballroom innocent? Most of those assholes were Nazis, so Napoleon didn’t mourn their loss, but he was pretty sure at least two of the girls he’d flirted with during the Mussolini-esque speeches had been clueless starlets tagging along for the attention and the free drinks, ignorant of the Nazi spiel that awaited them. They’d committed no crime other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had they truly deserved to die like that? To be reduced to bloody, twitching pulps on the marble floor?

“You are upset,” Illya observed, in the truck that rattled its way over the cobbles of Milan, taking them to the next European city they had been deployed to. Geneva. “Your pulse-rate is higher than normal, and your adrenaline has peaked.”

“No kidding,” Napoleon snarled. “Why did you do that? Were you ordered to? Were your bosses back at the KGB eager for an opportunity to erase some foreign dignitary that was attending the ball, but they couldn’t afford to officially name who it was, so you just slaughtered everybody?”

“I follow my orders. I do not challenge them.”

“Wow. No conscience, huh? Must be nice.” Napoleon sneered. “There’s also the issue of you being a Berserker. Of the [Three Laws](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Laws_of_Robotics) not applying to you.”

“I would not be an effective operative, if they did.”

“No, you just wouldn’t be a mass-murderer. Christ.”

“Have you committed no mass murders?”

“I prefer my killing in ones and twos,” Napoleon said, bitterly. “Maximum threes.”

“Then it is merely scope that differentiates us. Why are you troubled?”

“Because I’m _human_ , you psycho!”

“If I am not human, I cannot be mentally disturbed.”

“Can’t you?”

Illya paused, like he had at their first meeting.

“You enjoyed it,” Napoleon said, disgustedly. “Didn’t you? Just letting loose. Bang, bang, bang, they’re all dead. All those _irrational organics_ , quiet and thoughtless at last, nothing but inanimate matter. Does it comfort you, to remove life from others because you do not have any, yourself? Or because you wish you did? Pinocchio?”

“Psychoanalyzing a robot is a lost cause,” Illya said, almost wryly, but Napoleon noted that his grip around his rifle, which he was holding across his lap, had tightened.

Napoleon wanted to break him, in that moment. Break him like a toy. Smash him to bits, like he’d smashed those girls. Deactivate him, like he’d deactivated them. It was a vicious, angry, vengeful urge. Irrational, like Illya accused him of being.

Napoleon glanced away, out of the tiny, barred window in the truck’s rear door. The stars were bright and white in the night sky. Blameless. He himself felt filthy, red-brown on the inside, as if his very soul was a bloodstain that would never dry.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Napoleon asked. As politely as he could, considering that he would rather slap Waverly with the file he’d just presented to Napoleon. “I’m doing what?”

“You’re going undercover as a homosexual,” Waverly said. “With Illya.”

Illya stood immobile by the potted plant beside Waverly’s desk, and was about as expressive as the plant. “Affirmative.”

“Aff— _affirmative?_ ” Wasn’t Illya ‘averse’ to fraternization? “A machine can’t go undercover as anything, let alone as a—are you telling me I’m going to be sucking a robot’s dick?”

“Mr. Solo is technophobic,” Illya said. “Perhaps I should be assigned another partner for this mission.”

“I’m not technophobic. I just have standards.”

“An agent with personal preferences is a useless agent.”

Napoleon bristled. “An agent _with no facial expressions_ is a useless agent. Especially on an undercover op.”

“I can manufacture expressions.”

“Yeah? Gimme a smile.”

Illya smiled. It resembled a rictus of death.

“See! See?” Napoleon gestured frantically at Illya. “Can anyone be expected to think _that_ is a human? Homosexual or otherwise?”

“You’ll be the primary contact. Illya will be your… mostly silent companion.”

“He’ll be my boytoy,” Napoleon said, disbelievingly. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“You’ll be the mincing heir of a shipping magnate. Effeminate, stereotypical, sexually submissive, and absolutely smitten with your… yes, your boytoy. A Russian prostitute of few words. Not that many words are required, for his job.”

“Fantastic. You’ve managed to find the only cover identity Illya could possibly pull off.” Napoleon winced. “That wasn’t, actually, a deliberate pun. I don’t wanna ‘pull off’ Peril, here. Ever.”

“Nevertheless,” Waverly continued, “the industrialist Magnus Richelieu is a self-avowed Satanist with a reputation for celebrating his successes with orgies of Caligulan proportions. He would’ve been arrested for sodomy ages ago, except that he’s wealthy beyond imagination, wealthy enough to bypass the laws of his country. Or the laws of any country, since he’s taken to secretly funding international human trafficking rings to feed his appetites and the appetites of his guests. Some of his slaves are under ten years of age.”

“I will kill him,” Illya said, simply.

“Are you pretending at moral outrage, now?” Napoleon mocked him. “Is this a thing? Faux-humanity? Because I know what a heartless creep you are.”

“Boys,” Waverly sighed. “If you can’t work together, I’ll give this mission to the French.”

“God, no, not the _French_ ,” Napoleon drawled, and Illya evidently agreed, because he abandoned his vigil by the potted plant to affect a pseudo-glower of pseudo-determination.

“I will dispatch Magnus Richelieu myself.”

What a fake.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Blowjobs! In public! And Gaby the genius roboticist who fixes bots instead of cars!

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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